


sincerely, you

by SquidyInk



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Based off of 'You', Clara Oswald - Freeform, F/M, John Smith - Freeform, Multi, Whouffaldi 2019, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquidyInk/pseuds/SquidyInk
Summary: John Smith is a psychopath. Plain and simple… but a psychopath in love. He’s working at a record store when Clara Oswald, a twenty-four-year-old English teacher walks in searching for age appropriate records for her class. There’s a mutual attraction and John will stop at nothing to make sure Clara is his.Based around Caroline Kepnes Novel ‘You’Whouffaldi/AU/warnings of sex, stalking and violence.





	1. Chapter 1

1st January 2010 – Glasgow, Scotland

 

I hear the bell chime above the door. 

First time in a few days that I’ve heard that sound.

It gets awfully lonely owning a record store, nobody seems to come in anymore. Maybe in London, but not here, never in Glasgow. It just isn’t that popular anymore.

And there you are.

You’re short and your face is sort of… round?

You have incredibly small hands – and small feet, if I might add. 

Your hair is a dull brown, but not when the sunlight from behind you settles down upon you. All of a sudden, your hair is the most beautiful colour these old eyes have witnessed. Now, I can tell I’m certainly older than you, possibly by about twenty years older. But there’s something about you that tells me my age isn’t going to bother you, not in the slightest. 

You’re wearing a pale jumper, and a pale shirt underneath that – buttoned all the way to the top of your throat – doesn’t that hurt a little, can you breathe properly? Look at me, I’m already worrying about your safety and you haven’t even told me your name yet. Anyway, I spot that you’re wearing brown jeans far too tight for your legs and brown boots a little too big for your feet. Covering your hair, you wear a white bobble hat with a fluffy red top bouncing about on top of it. You’re cute, I’ll give you that.

I don’t notice your eyes until they settle on mine and all of sudden, I’m taking a deep breath in and forcing it all out all… over… again… 

It’s your eyes that get my attention the most, and I’m sure they get the attention of a lot of other men too. I bet I’ll have more than men fighting for you, you know you’re beautiful and you take advantage of that. I drop my head down, noticing that I’ve definitely been staring for too long. My mother taught me well, have respect for women and they will have respect for you. I listen to your footsteps, those heavy boots scraping along the wooden floors of my record store – of all the shops in Glasgow and you come into this one. I can tell you aren’t from here, otherwise I would have seen you before and I wouldn’t miss a pretty face like yours.

You search the stacks for a while, flicking your way through heavy records. I don’t move a muscle, not wanting to frighten you. You’re in my shop, you should feel safe, right? I watch as you move from Led Zeppelin to the Beatles and I slowly start to gather information about you. So, you like Zeppelin and the Beatles? Nice choice, but definitely not your generation. I would say you’re around twenty-three years old, much younger than I am at thirty-nine, so I’m half expecting you to go for something early nineties or late nineties, none of this new stuff that’s been going around lately. Of course. Why would you be into new music? You are in a record store, after all.

You can tell a lot about a person from their music interests, you know? And I’m sure we’ll have no problem talking to each other when you pick out the record you want – and I have a feeling it will be something classic, something nobody will ever forget. 

Please do not go near Elvis, even if he is the creator of Rock and Roll.

And, in one intense, very infuriating moment, you finally choose your poison – Queen. I take a gasp of relief and hope you didn’t hear that, because that would be embarrassing. I pretend like I haven’t been watching you walk around my store, scratching at my thick grey beard I’ve been working on for months – will you like my beard once you see me? Are beards your thing? Our eyes meet and I’m expecting the world to slow down, but it doesn’t. Everything plays out like an everyday transaction between store owner and customer. 

You place the record down neatly, you’re careful with it and by that, I can tell you look after the things you buy, which suggests you don’t have a lot of money. I look for a ring first and thank God – there isn’t one, not even an engagement ring? I suppose you are too young to get married. Your nails are short, which is unusual for the type of woman you are, girly and unafraid to show off your feminine side. I look down and notice which Queen record it is… A Night at the Opera, one of their best and I’m thankful you didn’t pick up Elvis.

I take out a bag, scan your record and make sure it’s delicately placed into the bag because I can just tell by the way you’re biting your bottom lip you’re anxious about this record – maybe it’s a gift for somebody? And then, you speak your first few words to me.

“Busy in here today?”

I knew it.

You aren’t from around here, you’re Northern. The accent sounds familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it… I should get you to talk more, then maybe I’ll have a chance of figuring it out.

“No, no, not really,” I say, my Scottish accent is thick and it seems to take you by surprise and the way you’re looking at me I would say you like the look of me and the sound of my voice, grumpy and gravelly, most women do, “You’re my first customer in a few days, actually.”

You nod your head and take out your purse, deliberately flashing all your cards to me. I can tell that you’ve done it on purpose, you want me to know you. I smile, pressing my square, black rimmed glasses further into my face.

Clara.

Clara Oswald is your name and I already adore the way it rolls off of my tongue and how easy it is to say for the Scottish accent.

You were born on the twenty-seventh of April, in nineteen eighty-six, which makes you twenty-four this year. I wasn’t far off then, Clara. Once you’re finished digging through your purse, you finally pull out a ten-pound note and hand it to me. I make sure to move quickly, as I don’t want to scare you away with my staring but you’re just so – enticing.

“Very good choice,” I tell you, pointing at the record as I hand it over to you in its bag, “Thankful you didn’t choose Elvis,”

You laugh and take the bag, you should be scared of me, you should have a nervous laugh, nod your head and walk out of here as quick as you can. But you like danger, I can tell.

“I’m not really an Elvis fan, I prefer bands to singers. I’m a sucker for Frank Sinatra though,”

I snort.

Great, you’re a Sinatra fan, well, not everybody can be perfect, “And why’s that?” I ask, not letting you know whether I like Sinatra or not.

You bite your lip and turn to walk away, “I like my men a little bit older,” you tell me and I feel my knees buckle.

This is what you do to me Clara, and I knew from that moment… I just had to have you.

A few hours have passed since our last meeting, Clara, and I can’t stop thinking about you. I know where your accent is from, I just can’t place it… Not yet anyway, but I have something that will help me out, social media. Now, I’m thirty-nine and nearing forty, I shouldn’t have a clue about social media, but I never seem to be off it. I’m an Artist, Clara, as you’ll find out soon and I’m determined to sketch every line I’ve memorised of you when I get back to my home, write every lyric I can think of so you know we’re meant to be together, that we’re… destined.

I don’t really believe in destiny, Clara, but there has to be some sort of reason as to why you walked into my shop and I felt the way I did when I took my first glance at you.

I know you felt it too, I could tell from the look you gave me. You know, that look. 

But, I don’t want to scare you away. I can’t write about you like they did in the 1500’s, it wasn’t acceptable now, these days it was seen as harassment. I would be arrested for just showing you how I feel. Weird, really. How could it be okay all those years ago and now if I even search you up on social media, it’s considered creepy? I don’t understand it Clara, but I know you will. I know you’ll understand why I need to know you. So, I push the key into the lock of my front door, pushing both doors open. I live in what you would call a Castle, Clara, but I don’t want to run around telling everybody I live in a Castle. That would just be gloating, and I’m not like that, you’ll see.

It’s cold in here and always damp, and I hate it. But I know someday you’ll live here with me, and we’ll sit in the living room by the fire, warming ourselves up with hot chocolate and a tub of marshmallows. People would say I’m moving too quickly, but why would they say that when half the population believe in love at first sight?

And that’s what I know this is, Clara, it is love at first sight.

I roll my sleeves up, slicking my hair back just in case you just happen to show up at my door. Not that you would, as you have no idea where I live yet. But you will, I just need to know you first. I know other people will warn you away from me, I know they will see it as creepy that I’m even thinking about you hours after our meeting. But I can’t help it, I know you won’t mind, because I already know you. 

I know what type of woman you are. 

You’re kind and always thoughtful of others. You aren’t the type to buy a Starbucks at 7am, then drive off to work in a Ford Fiesta on time. I know you’re the type who is rushing around her flat at 8am, incredibly late for work, brushing her teeth whilst trying to force a shoe on and rushing out the door to get to your motorbike. I know you have a motorbike, because I noticed the grease on your hand when you paid for your record, when I was checking if you were married or not.

I don’t go near married women, Clara, so I had to check that first. I’m not a cheat, and I don’t cheat with women. I wouldn’t ever hurt you, I promise to protect you until I’m lying dead in a ditch, and this may sound like a lie, but I won’t let anything happen to you. 

I have a duty of care now, Clara.

So, I sit at my desk, staring out of the window and into the back garden and suddenly I’m seeing you. I know you aren’t really there, but it’s a nice thought. You’re running around the garden, and then I see me. I’m chasing after you, laughing at your playful screams and we topple over into a pool. And I think it’s our future, Clara, the future I know we both deserve. 

I open up my laptop, I don’t log in, just in case there’s any way you can see that I’m searching your name. There’s plenty of Clara Oswald’s in this world, so I have to be precise. I search for Scotland, and find a few profiles with the same name but they definitely aren’t yours. I type in Glasgow, and a school comes up. I click on it, and there you are. Your profile open for the world to see, including your students, if I might add. The first thing I do is search through your friends, I don’t want anybody interfering with us. 

Amelia Pond, she seems to work at this school too, as an Art teacher. Something I’ll have in common with one of your friends then, Clara. 

The next person I find, is Donna Noble, she’s a redhead and she works as a receptionist at the school you teach at. 

Then there’s Rose, the dinner lady, who is far too young to be a dinner lady. I scroll down further and find a ‘Ten’ who seems to be married to Rose and has taken her last name. Modern, I like your friends so far, Clara. But what’s with the name, why do they call him Ten?

Then there’s Martha, the school nurse who definitely looks as though she could break my leg if I ever hurt you. Protective friends, that’s always a good start. Then there’s Bill, who also works in the kitchen and she’s gay. That doesn’t bother me, it never has.

I’ll come back to your friends in a moment… I need to find out more about you, Clara. And Facebook is such an open book, any creep could be searching your name and taking your photos, you need to be more careful. But don’t worry, I’ll show you how to keep all your social media safe from creeps like that. 

So, you’re from Blackpool, I thought it would be somewhere around there. Your father is alive and well, but your mother died five years ago in a gas explosion whilst she was shopping at a mall. I’m sorry, Clara. Truly, I am. You have no siblings, you work at Coal Hill in Glasgow, a school I haven’t heard of before so it must be newly built. You have over three hundred photos, mostly of other things, which tells me you don’t like the way you look and that annoys me Clara. You need to think more highly of yourself. 

Your photos are of family and friends, and a few photos of yourself here and there. I don’t need to save any, because I’m not obsessed with you, I just want to know you. 

You have a Twitter page, but you barely use it, so I won’t bother looking through that, just yet.

So, I click back onto your friends, scroll down to where I left off and right down the bottom of your list, I see someone you take a lot of pictures with and suddenly, I’m angry. He doesn’t see you the way I do, Clara, he doesn’t appreciate how different you are from all the other women this guy has shagged.

In the photo, you’re sat on his lap at some sort of party. You’re out of your face, and so is he, but both your relationship status’ say single, so he can’t be your boyfriend.

I really hope he isn’t your boyfriend.

His name is Danny.

Danny Pink, what a ridiculous name. Did his whole family hate him, with that last name? And why wouldn’t he change it himself?

I’m distracted by the sudden noise my laptop makes, and it’s the sound of a Facebook notification. I scroll all the way to the top of your page and notice that you posted a status exactly a minute ago.

‘Why do older men have to be so… beautiful? No daddy issues, I swear. Just, #silverfox’

I smile.

I knew you felt it too Clara.

You’re using a hashtag for Facebook when it’s meant for Twitter, but I’ll forgive you, as you’re talking about me. Something tells me you’re lying when you say you have no daddy issues, but I guess I’ll find out.

The noise happens again, and I click the banner that reads ‘1 new post’ and I’ve never clicked something so quickly, Clara.

It’s a picture of you, Amy, Donna and Rose sat round a table at a pub, you’ve captioned it with:

‘Drinks with my beautiful colleagues. Discussing silver fox’s…’ with a winky face.

You’ve told your friends about me.

It’s sweet, really, and now I have to put my game face on. I click on the pub that you’ve tagged and see that it’s not too far from here, just a walk into town. I smile, I’ve got to know what your friends really think about me.

I have to hear it for myself.

I grab my coat and a hat, covering my hair with it just in case you recognize me. I don’t want you to think I’m stalking you.

That would be creepy.


	2. Your Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're hanging out with your friends and you're talking about me, Clara. I listen for hours, and eventually help you home. Any creep could be watching you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support and comments, I really appreciate them and it shows that it is worth it, writing a fanfic! Hope you all enjoy this chapter...

I hear you laugh behind me.

I know it’s your laugh, because it suits you.

I look over my shoulder, pressing my black rimmed glasses further into my face. I pull my cap harder down onto my head, it’s nearly covering my eyes but I can’t risk you spotting me, Clara.

I can’t risk your friends telling you I’m a weirdo and I’m stalking you because I’m not, I’m just trying to see you.

I order a cider and sit up at the bar, my shoulders slumped so I don’t make myself look obvious. If you – or your friends notice some old guy at the bar sitting up straight and making an effort to look over at you, you’ll move away and try and get away from me, but I just want to bump into you and know you. That doesn’t sound bad, does it, Clara? I just want to protect you from all the other creep’s, like Danny Pink for example… What a waste of a man.

I sip from my glass and wipe the froth from my top lip, drinking cider isn’t exactly the most elegant drink. I should have ordered a Whiskey, your typical, ex-builder type of old man would only drink cider. Fuck, Clara, I didn’t think this through. I want you to think I’m different from other men, because I am. I’m different to Danny, who probably calls himself that because he hates how ‘grown up’ Daniel sounds. Anyway, enough about Danny. I can’t look over my shoulder too many times, because your ginger, Scottish friend keeps looking over at me. I’m not sure if she recognises me because she grew up here, or she’s onto me. 

My ears suddenly stand to attention, like a meerkat popping out of the ground, but I keep my shoulders slumped, the whole point of this is for you not to notice me.  
I listen in, edging off of my seat as though if I move closer to you, I’ll be able to hear more clearly. I don’t know why I’m bothering, Clara, I can hear you and your friends just fine. I think it’s more of an excuse for me to bump into you. You’re talking about work mostly, bitching about your students. Is that the type of woman you are Clara, or do you just do that to make your friends feel better about their crappy opinions towards other people? Do you do it so your friends feel normal? 

The conversation seems like it’s going on for ages, you’re all interrupting each other, a mix of different accents which is quite honestly, getting on my last nerve. 

You’re all laughing and seem to be knocking back enough drinks to kill an elephant. It goes silent, and then the tone of the conversation drops. Amy, the ginger one who’s the Art teacher, starts to talk about her husband, Rory. They can’t have a baby, which is awful, I know how that feels. I’m nearly forty and I don’t have any children. I wonder how you feel about children, Clara? 

Donna and her husband are trying for a baby, and they all seem to want to have children. Rose, on the other hand, tells everybody she’s too young and makes some naïve comment that her much older husband doesn’t want any children and he’s quite happy with just her, as they are now. We all know that’s not true and I can tell from the sigh you let out before you take another shot, that what Rose is saying isn’t true.

What’s the secret there, Clara?

The conversation dies down and you all seem to be quite fucked on how ever many shots you’ve all taken. 

Then, all of a sudden, to my absolute delight, you mention my record store in the middle of this tiny town, where nobody really goes and your friends are listening and I’m nearly off of my chair with excitement. You tell them how we met, you were buying a record to show your students in class, as one of them didn’t know what a vinyl player was. Sacrilege, really. Anyway, I listen harder and I can tell from the tone of your voice meeting me did something to you, like it did something to me. You explain what I look like, handsome and a silver fox. I have a sharp jaw, I’m skinny, and I’m at least in my late thirties. A compliment, when you’re hitting forty. I have curly, thick hair and you explain just how badly you want to run your fingers through it, I have no problem with that, Clara. 

You tell them about my glasses and call me modern, my accent sends shivers down your whole body and my personality tops it all off, in your opinion. I’m sweet, and not like other men and this is exactly how I wanted you to see me, Clara. You pause as if you’re thinking of anything else to say, but instead you hold back and throw your neck backwards, drinking yet another shot. Careful Clara, any creep could be watching you and take advantage of you with how heavily intoxicated you are. Your friends encourage you, but you shut them down, telling them it wouldn’t work, your father wouldn’t agree. Fuck your father, you’re a grown woman. 

The conversation dies down again, and Amy announces that she’s calling a Taxi because it’s late and she wants to get back to Rory. Donna does the same and they both get up to leave, thanking their friends for a wonderful night. It wasn’t that wonderful, apart from the part where you told them about me Clara. It meant something to you, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up. If you’re close to your friends, which I can tell you are, you would tell them nearly everything about your life, every aspect. Maybe I need to befriend one of your friends and that’s how we’ll bump into each other?

The next to leave is Rose, apparently her dedicated, over protective husband is waiting outside. If he has to pick you up, Rose, he doesn’t trust you. That’s the first thing I’m going to build with you, Clara, trust. I can already tell you don’t trust your friends, so you’re going to trust me, I’ll make sure of that. I know you don’t trust Rose, because after she leaves and she’s out of sight, you grab your bag and stumble to the door. I want to help you, I want to stand and make sure you don’t trip in those ridiculous heels and hurt yourself. But I don’t, because I’m a coward and it isn’t the right time yet. But, I’m worried. I notice a few men’s eyes from the bar follow you out, and I’m scared they’ll follow you out, Clara. 

After all, I do have a duty of care now.

So, I finish my drink and stand up, following close enough to see where you’re going but not close enough for you to hear or notice me. You stop at the edge of the path and wave at Rose, now you know she isn’t lying and she was picked up by her husband after all. You look around and attempt to call a Taxi, but I know you can’t see a single thing on that phone of yours. It’s an IPhone, and I’m paranoid you’re about to drop it down a drain you’re so fucked. You start to walk off down the road and I immediately panic, what if you fall? What if you walk out into a busy road and get hit by a car? I can’t have that happen Clara, I care about you.

I care about you.

I’m not following you, I’m making sure you’re okay, like any gentlemen would.

I follow close behind you and it’s worrying how you can’t hear my footsteps Clara as we’ve walked all the way back to the block of flats you live in. I was right, you don’t have a lot of money. This is the only block of flats in Glasgow too and in this area it’s more country and castles then house’s and blocks of flats. Surely by now you’ve noticed me? Maybe you’re trying not to panic.

You should panic, you should run and get back to your flat as quickly as you can. I make note of your address mentally and drop behind a bush when you turn around. Right, you haven’t noticed, but you’re paranoid. If you had noticed, you’re the type of woman to walk back on yourself and check nobody is following you. I know you can defend yourself, so I should have trusted you enough to walk back by yourself, unharmed. 

You turn back around and attempt to buzz the door open. I don’t want you to know I followed you for your own safety, so I’ve got to act like I live here too. I walk around the corner, singing to myself to make myself seem like a happy, slightly drunk guy on his way back from the pub. I make sure I don’t look as fucked as you do. I know you’ve seen me already and you’ll definitely remember me from the conversation you had with your friends. 

So, I walk towards you, not stumble, because I don’t want you to think I’m going to hurt you.

I pause for a minute and lean over to buzz the door open, you’re all but leaning on me and it really isn’t safe for you to be out here, Clara.

“Do you need some help, lass?” I ask, my hands on your shoulders, not wanting to touch any lower in case you bat me away and scream that I’m attempting to rape you.

You stare up at me and god, you’ve never looked so beautiful. All I want to do is take you inside and fuck you up against a wall. But I’m the nice guy, I’m the nice guy with the accent and the cute, curly (slightly grey) hair. 

“Hey, I know you,” you grin, poking my chest but nearly missing because of the sway you dramatically display, “You own that record store! Mr Silver Fox… Did I mention that you’re hot? Because you are.”

I smile.

It’s flattering, to be seen as attractive by a much younger woman. 

I laugh, and you instinctively lean closer to me because you know who I am now, “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m not often told that,” I laugh it off because you’re drunk and would probably be embarrassed if you had said that to me sober.

I buzz us both in and make sure we take the lift, because I don’t think you can manage the stairs.

“Which flat are you?”

You lean your head back against the wall of the lift, sighing, “Cold,” you murmur, and I know it’s because your head is probably pounding from far too much alcohol and the cold helps.

“I’m – I’m flat 123, I know, stupid!” you exclaim all of a sudden, throwing your hands in the air. I laugh, because you’re a loud drunk, but you’re not aggressive or whiny. 

You’re the good kind of drunk.

“Okay, do you mind if I help you to your flat?” I ask and I can tell you appreciate the gesture; most men probably wouldn’t offer to help you. Or women. 

You nod and you really need to be more careful, I could be anybody.

The lift alerts us that we’ve reached your floor and I help you out, letting you walk ahead of me. I don’t want to touch you, you might think I’m coming onto you and that’s not what I want, I want you to know me first. 

We come to your door and I help you inside because you struggle with your keys. I keep the door open and you notice, it makes it look as if I’m not intending to stay and I have respect for you. It’s a subtle way to tell you I have respect for you and I’m just here to help you home. All of a sudden, you swing your arms around me and give me one of your famous smiles.

“Thank you for helping me into my flat, mystery silver fox!” you shout and I almost feel the need to cover your mouth you’re so loud, but that would be creepy. 

I smile and shrug my shoulders, “It’s what any gentlemen would do.” I nearly let your name slip but then I remember, you haven’t told me your name yet and I’m about to ask you but before I can you’ve slipped off your heels and all but collapsed onto your sofa.

You’ve fallen asleep and it would be adorable if I was your boyfriend and you knew me, but you don’t know me and I could be anybody, you really need to be more careful. But don’t worry Clara, I’ll be taking care of you soon. I smile and bend over, grabbing a red blanket from one end of your sofa and placing it over the top of you. I want to kiss you on the cheek, but I’m not taking it that far. After all, we’ve only just met.

I stand for a while, watching you, until it becomes creepy and I snap out of it. I turn to see your phone on the coffee table… Would you notice if it went missing? It’s an IPhone, even if you got a new one, it would still work with a sim card in and an ICloud back up. I don’t want to steal from you Clara, I don’t. But you’ve left me no choice, I have to know you and I have to make sure men like Danny aren’t harassing you all of the time.

I pick up your phone, back up your ICloud so I can stay logged in when you eventually get a new phone and I close your front door, making sure it’s jammed shut so nobody can follow you up here. As I’m walking down the steps of your block of flats, I take your phone out of my pocket and there’s a photo of you and your work colleagues. Cute, really. You must really trust these women. 

Fuck, Clara.

Not even a passcode?

We really need to talk about internet safety and your safety in general.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Please be careful on the internet, something like this could happen to you if you aren’t careful. Please leave a comment of encouragement as a lot of effort went into this, thank you!


End file.
